Desert Wind
by DoodlingPlume
Summary: "You know that this is going to happen again in the near future, and you swallow back a bitter aftertaste. Still, you keep fighting. And keep hoping." Onesided Rosch/Stocke. 2nd POV. Some non-graphic suggestive themes.


Desert Wind

By DoodlingPlume

Warning: Some non-graphic sex and male/male pairing. If this does not bother you, go ahead and enjoy.

* * *

You enter the room silently, slightly fixing the heavy cape attached to your shoulders. Sand scuffles on the wooden floor beneath your feet, and you can feel many of the blisters that have formed after running through the wastelands with nothing but your worn-out leather shoes.

You tried wrapping your feet in oil-soaked bandages, hoping to lessen the friction of the sand that keep pouring in your shoes, but nothing helps. Sand pours in from openings in your scratched metal greaves into the leather, creating a rough, papery drag in your steps. But you still keep hoping.

It seems that that is the only thing you do nowadays.

Hoping.

And fighting.

And hoping some more.

It has been months in the wastelands, following orders on behalf of your country. You don't know to be glad to still have a land to call 'home'; or to grieve that your once unwavering devotion to your country has started chipping away, after constant fighting.

The room is mostly dark, with nothing but a single candle lit on the decrepit, sand ridden-drawer that nobody uses. Dusk has fallen outside, and just the occasional hiss of the desert beasts interrupts the silence of the place. The stench of past dwellers, stuffy old hay and sand pervades the room, and you try to ignore it. It is an old inn, and you should be grateful that there is one at all in this village in the middle of nowhere. The incense that the innkeeper lighted is only making the odor worse. Stocke is already there, wordlessly staring outside the barred windows.

Despite knowing him for a long time, he still remains a mystery for you.

You hope to understand him more.

He turns, and stares at you. A wordless conversation passes. You take advantage to rake a glance at him.

The harsh desert sunlight has lightened his sun-ripe wheat coloured hair, and you can see fleeting shadows in his faded green eyes. You wonder what this country has done to him.

What _you_ have done to him.

A stab of guilt passes through you, and you ignore it, just as you've done countless times before.

You stalk closer to him, and he looks away.

You know that it is only you. That he never really agreed to it. That he is just allowing you to come closer because of the circumstances that you both find yourselves in. But you still allow yourself to hope.

Then, in the haze of the incense, of dark shadows in light green eyes and the flickering light of the candle, you are on top of him, a heavy weight chaining him down.

You tug the buckles of his old, scruffy leather gauntlets, and in turn, he slides away the heavy cape on attached to your shoulders. It is a wordless dance, happened countless times in the past after the heat of the battle, after the worn-out victory in a field, or after a night of heavy loss and defeat.

His leather breastplate thuds on the floor, and the ragged red cape, and shoulder guard soon follows, until he is laid bare underneath you.

You have seen it many times before, but still the sight amazes you.

Gently, you trace his neckline to his chest with light kisses, keeping careful attention to the numerous scars that crisscross his torso. A jagged while line on his left chest. A faded bullet entry wound right on his abdomen. A spider web of rugged lines far too closer to his jugular. You know them all, but you still explore them, always counting them. His breathing hitches, and you make sure to keep your touch gentle, never too forceful or abrupt.

He flinches suddenly when you reach his hip, and you see why. A new wound has appeared right on top of his left hipbone, crudely stitched by the healers in battle, and still angry red. A short-sword stab wound, probably made by the enemy filled with desperation and fear of dying. Another permanent mark left by the enemy.

You feel something dark and slimy settle in your chest, and soon you realize that it's your ugly possessiveness making itself known. The enemy can always mark him, but you can't.

You can't.

Still, you make sure to lightly bite his wound, and take dark satisfaction at how he gasps and flinches. How his green eyes shifts with pain and how he bites his lips to muffle his groan. So you do it again, and again. Just to see him once more responding to you, not anybody else. Just to listen to him trying to not bend or break. Not to the enemy, nor to you. You find him beautiful, and take dark pleasure at knowing that you can elicit these reactions out of his usual stoic mask. So you continue.

You keep teasing, biting, licking and sucking, and he keeps gasping, moaning, flinching and writhing, until you can't take it anymore. A guttural growl rips from your throat and your careful control to keep yourself gentle is shredded apart by the heat of the night.

You leap down to bite and kiss his lips but he just turns his head, closing tightly his eyes, and biting his fist to muffle his panting. He never looks at you properly in the eye. Not tonight. Not now, not ever. But you know how he looks tenderly at all the others. You are disappointed, but soon that emotion gives way to anger. Anger, and hot, burning jealousy that sets your muscles on fire and coils down to your stomach, like an insidious serpent that refuses to leave.

So, like a beast leaping for its prey, you tear him apart, and jerk, bite, claw and pound into him, and he fights back, clutching, hissing, and squirming. You just increase in pace, and he rises to follow. But never falls back, unbendable, and unrelenting as always. And that angers you.

You mercilessly pound into him. All rational thoughts has left a while ago, and something much more primal and dark occupies your mind. Every bite you take leaves an angry red trail on his body, and every clutch of your thaumatech arm leaves black and blue prints on his arms and wrists. He struggles in your grasp, but by force alone you have always had the upper hand. And this delights you.

So you take dark satisfaction at every pained moan, every sharp gasp and every muffled whimper that you manage to rip out of his pretty little throat. Every single show of vulnerability that he tries to hide is another advantage for you. So you tear into him like a hungered beast, and nothing else stands in your way.

The night deepens, and the only sounds in the room now are your harsh pants and the ragged breath that he takes. Then, a chocked sob escapes him, and you feel the ice-cold reality hit you again, clearing your head. Your mouth feels dry, and the sight of his abused body registers in your mind, and it immediately brings a wave of guilt.

Underneath the desert moonlight that filters through the wooden bars on the window, he lays still, chest heaving in painful pants. His wrists and upper arms are filled with terrible, terrible hand-shaped bruises, and his neck and torso aren't faring much better. The moonlight makes him look much more fragile than he is. You dare not imagine what you've done to the rest of his body. You can see that he is trying to hide how much in pain he is, and another wave of guilt wreaks you.

So you dress yourself silently, trying as hard as possible not to look at the limp form lying on top of the uncomfortable wooden bed. You open your mouth, to say something, anything, but only silence comes out. You know that it's an exercise in futility. It has happened many times before, and you know that nothing is going to change. You know that all the newly opened wounds and scars that you've left him will be gone by tomorrow morning, carefully hidden underneath his layers of armour and cape. You know that if a buckle or a strap is out of place, you won't comment on it, and neither will he.

You wordlessly stand up and make for the door. You know that all the other companions are asleep so nobody is going to barge in, but still it feels as if you have committed a terrible crime. So you try to leave the room, leave _him_ , as fast as possible, until the guilt recedes again. Tomorrow, you'll call his name again. Tomorrow, everything is going to go back to normal.

Or so you say.

You know that this is going to happen again in the near future, and you swallow back a bitter aftertaste.

The candle is nearly gone, and the fragile light teeters in the nonexistent wind. The incense is already gone, its last sickeningly sweet traces overpowering the sweat and musky odour that you left behind. Sand and wood scuffles beneath your feet, and your armor feels oddly heavy.  
You stop at the door, shame, guilt and a possessive _want_ leaving your mind and body in a chaotic jumble.

But still, one last time, you clutch the door-frame, and look back, hoping.

He doesn't open his eyes. The cool and abrasive desert night wind blows in through the cracks in the barred window, and blows out the candle. The room becomes dark, except for the pale figure under the moonlight, still unmoving, still biting the back of his hand to muffle his pained breathing.

You just clinch your fists harder, and stalk out of the room.

* * *

Not beta-ed. FF still messes with my paragraph formats and sentence layouts. If it looks too cluttered, I apologize, but I still haven't figured out how to fix it.

My brain decided to be strange and this jumble of words came out so I had to write it down. It is my first try at writing a sex scene, so I hope I wasn't too confusing. I wanted to write a description heavy fic focusing on sensations rather than the sex, but I don't know if I managed it.

I haven't finished Radiant Historia yet, but I'm in love with the characters, especially Stocke. So I don't know yet if there is a village in the middle of the wastelands and many other details of the game and please, do not spoil anything of the gameplay.

Please tell me your opinions, and constructive criticisms are welcome.

Thank you for reading.


End file.
